


No More Talk Of Darkness / Forget These Wide-Eyed Fears

by captainswanparrilla



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainswanparrilla/pseuds/captainswanparrilla
Summary: Emma has a terrible nightmare about the hooded figure and Killian is there to comfort her.





	No More Talk Of Darkness / Forget These Wide-Eyed Fears

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place somewhere between 6x03 and 6x04. I wrote it a while back, but I hadn't been confident enough to post it until now. It's my first time posting fic so please be gentle. It's heavily inspired by the song 'All I Ask Of You' from The Phantom of the Opera. This fic is explicit and does include smut. Trigger warnings include mild violence and blood (during the nightmare) and vomiting (one minor scene). I hope you enjoy. :)

She doesn’t have another vision, but she dreams.

She dreams of a figure, a faceless, nameless entity in a hooded cloak, a grim reaper stalking her every move. He follows her home after work, stands amongst the shrubbery and watches her walk up the stairs. He’s there, outside of Granny’s, watching through the window as she has lunch with her family. Anywhere she goes she can feel his presence, lurking, waiting, always watching.

Fog descends over the main street of Storybrooke where she stands, everyone she loves in a line behind her. They’re ready to defend her, to help her, to die for her and she can’t let that happen. She won’t let that happen.

She can feel the blade slice through her stomach, the sharp edges catching on her insides and ripping her flesh apart. She can feel the blood start to drain out of her, can feel the cold hand of death upon her shoulder. She sinks to the ground on her knees, the sword lodged in her belly. Her family is by her side in an instant, Killian’s strong and steady arms holding her close.

The figure is standing over them, watching.

Henry is sobbing, Killian is whispering desperate words in her hair (“stay with me, Swan” and “come on, my love, you can beat this” and “I can’t lose you, Emma, come back to me!”), her parents are trying to hold back their despair to comfort her. It’s all too much. She can’t breathe anymore, can’t get air into her lungs. She coughs, wheezes as she tries to speak and nothing comes out.

She has so much left to say. She wants to tell Henry that she loves him, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to her, that she’s never been prouder of anyone than she is of him, that he’s an amazing person and his hope and endless love inspires her every day. She wants to tell her parents that she forgives them for sending her away, that she understands, that she’s grateful she got to spend what little time she did with them, that she’s proud to be their daughter. She wants to tell Regina that she’s thankful Henry was raised by her, to take care of him, to make sure he stays on the right path and that he never forgets what a wonderful gift his compassion is, that he never descends into darkness and stays in the light.

She wants to tell Killian so much that her heart aches with the words. She wants to tell him that he saved her, that he showed her how to feel and trust and love again. She wants to tell him that he’s good, that he’s so good and that he’s more then made up for his past sins, that those demons in his head that still keep him awake and haunt his dreams have been defeated by his constant and persistent effort to change. She wants to tell him that he’s the reason she believed she could have a future. She wants to tell him that she imagined their child, that she wanted a family with him and a life and it’s so fucking unfair that it’s being torn away from them after everything they’ve been through.

She wants to tell him how much his love changed her, how much his love mended her heart and made her whole, how every time he touched her she could feel the spark, the flame it set in her soul. She wants to tell him how much it scared her and how stupid she was to wait as long as she did to act on her feelings. She wants to tell him that every time he kissed her she felt like she was flying and she never wanted him to stop.

Suddenly it’s all she wants; one last kiss before she descends into the dark abyss. She reaches out with a shaky hand and pulls at the leather lapels of his jacket with as much force as she can muster. He leans down and let’s her crash their lips together. She can taste the salt of his tears on her tongue and it makes her choke out a breathy sob into his mouth.

Then he’s screaming, “Emma, wake up! Emma, Emma, please, Emma, wake up!”

She jolts upright in an instant, her forehead nearly colliding with Killian’s. She can’t breathe, clutches at her heart while she tries to regain her bearings. She knows she’s hyperventilating and Killian is worried out of his mind. She can see it in his eyes, in the scrunch of his brows, how he won’t stop staring at her face and cataloging her features.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just runs his hand over her bare arm, his hookless wrist resting on the bed at her side. She doesn’t realize that she’s crying until he pulls her in close and cradles her head against his shoulder. He whispers soothing words in her ear, a string of shushes and hums in that low register that never fails to calm her.

“Emma, darling, you’re alright. I’ve got you, love.” He’s rocking them back of forth, the gentle sway reminiscent of the ocean waves underneath his beloved ship. “I’m right here. You’re safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He brushes the hair from her forehead, but it’s stubborn and it sticks. She’s drenched in sweat, her tank-top soaked through and plastered to her. She’s sweating but she’s cold, freezing, even though her lower body is under the covers and she’s tucked in Killian’s warm embrace. She shivers, trembles in his arms.

He pulls away to look at her but doesn’t stop touching her. He keeps one arm around her waist and uses his thumb to wipe away her tears. They’re still spilling out but slower now, less intense. He lays his palm against her cheek, caresses it with his fingertips.

“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively. He searches her eyes, doesn’t press her to speak but she knows he wants to know why she’s woken up in the middle of the night in a panic. She knows he won’t make her talk, would be willing to go back to bed and never mention it again, but she knows it wouldn’t be fair. It would eat him alive to not know what caused her duress.

She swallows hard and shakes her head. “I had a nightmare. A really horrible nightmare.”

“I gathered as much,” he says solemnly.

Once again, he doesn’t pry, doesn’t try to coax more out of her. He would leave it at that, but she wants to tell him. She needs to, needs him. “The hooded figured was following me, watching everything I did. At home, at my parents house, at the diner, at the station. I wasn’t safe anywhere, ever.”

“You’re safe with me,” he insists adamantly. “You’re safe right here, right now.”

“I know,” she says with a weak smile. “But in the dream I wasn’t. And then it morphed into the vision, but worse. I…felt myself die. I felt myself slipping away and you were all there and had to watch the life drain out of me. It all felt so real…”

She trails off, her heart beginning to beat wildly at the thought. Every memory is at the forefront of her mind, the vivid imagery making her blood run cold. 

“You’re pale,” Killian observes worriedly.

She’s nauseous, her stomach churning as she remembers the sharp steel of the blade twisting and turning and robbing her of the life she dreamed of. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she groans. She pushes on his chest until he moves back and she bolts out of bed. She rushes to the bathroom, not even bothering to turn on the light as she bends over the toilet. She retches for what feels like forever. Killian quickly follows her (as always; he’s always right behind her). He holds her hair back and rubs her spine until she’s only dry heaving. 

Afterwards her throat is burning and her eyes are bleary. She has no energy to stand, so she merely leans back against Killian’s solid chest, lets him hold her while she catches her breath. I can’t believe I’m sitting on the bathroom floor in my panties puking my guts out because of a dream, she thinks with a grimace.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Killian whispers against her temple.

“Thinking about how pathetic I am,” she rasps, her voice scratchy from the rawness in her throat. She tries to clear it, but that makes the pain worse.

“Can you sit up?” he asks. “I need to get you some water and a damp cloth, love.”

She nods weakly and he shifts her to rest against the bathtub while he stands. He doesn’t move far. He grabs a water bottle from their bedroom (she’s guilty of leaving them lying around, which drives him nuts but comes in handy during situations like this) and a rag from the cupboard. He fills the bottle first with cold water and hands it down to her with the cap off. She takes a sip while he wets the rag and wrings it out until it isn’t dripping. He also grabs her a toothbrush and a cup to spit in so that she isn’t tasting the remnants of vomit.

“Scooch over,” he says, nudging her leg slightly with his foot. She moves up, allows him enough room to slip behind her with his legs bracketing her body. He squeezes her shoulder, signaling her to lean back. Her head is on his chest, the thick hair tickling her cheek. She jumps when she feels the cool cloth touch her forehead. Once she relaxes he lays it there and begins to massage her temple. “You need anything?”

She takes another swig of water before she tries to speak. Her voice comes out closer to normal as she says, “I think I’m okay as long as you keep doing what you’re doing.”

He chuckles, the vibrations reverberating through her spine. “As you wish.”

She doesn’t know how long they sit there, only that his fingers feel like Heaven and she no longer feels like she could reenact the pea-soup scene from The Exorcist. She lets him take her away, allows him to knead the terrors out of her mind for a few minutes. It works until he whispers, “You ready to go back to bed?” in her ear.

Emma’s body tenses. 

“We don’t have to,” he says soothingly. “We can stay here as long as you need.” 

His hand moves from her head down to her shoulder and works the muscles there until she feels boneless, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness but refusing to tip over. She can’t go back to sleep. If she goes back to sleep she’ll dream and if she dreams she’ll feel her death and she can’t handle that again. She forces her eyes open when they droop despite Killian’s best efforts. 

“Tell me a story,” she requests, her voice soft and groggy.

“Which one would you like to hear?”

He’s gone from massaging her to playing with her hair. He alternates between combing his fingers through it and twirling it around, loosely tying it around his hand and then letting it fall. He never tugs, never pulls, only caresses. She’s fighting a battle to stay awake, to not fall prey to her subconscious. “Anything. Just talk to me.”

“Must it start with once upon a time?”

Emma laughs but it isn’t boisterous. She can tell he loves it all the same because he hugs her closer and kisses her cheek. “No,” she answers, “it doesn’t have to start with once upon a time.”

He goes silent, contemplating what sea-faring adventure to regale her with she’s sure. After a while he asks, “Did I ever tell you about the time Liam and I were thrown in the brig?”

She shakes her head. He begins his tale, his voice smooth and lilting as he revisits the fond memory with his brother. Somewhere along the line–right around the time he pushed Liam into the ocean for stealing his pint–she grabs for his hand and weaves their fingers together over her torso. He occasionally strokes the back of her palm while he speaks, wraps his arms around her tighter when he feels the weight of his brother’s absence.

“The officer didn’t take kindly to my needling, you see,” Killian says after he’s explained that they were found on a street corner next to a brothel drunk off their asses. She snorts, can practically see his smirk behind her. “He thought I was being insubordinate. The lad got in my face, told me to stop being a ponce and sober up or he’d be forced to take action.”

“What did you do?”

“I threw my drink at his head.”

Emma’s eyes go wide and then she starts to giggle. “Of course you did.”

“Aye, but he deserved it. Bloody fool.”

“What happened then?” she prompts.

Killian sighs. “This is where it got sticky. The officer tried to restrain me and we engaged in a bit of fisticuffs. He wound up on the ground with his own shackles around his wrists. What we didn’t know was there were about five or six others around the corner. We walked right into them on our way to the next pub. They’d heard the squabble and decided to let us sleep off our intoxication behind bars.”

“Oh my, God.”

“We had to pay a fine, about a month’s pay.”

“Ouch. That had to hurt.”

She feels him shrug. “It was worth it. I wouldn’t trade that memory for the world.”

“I know what you mean,” Emma says, a lump forming in her throat. Soon all he’ll have left of her is memories. She doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows what she’s thinking. 

He doesn’t bring it up. He only shifts and says, “Bloody hell, this floor is hard.”

“We can go to bed now.” She’s uncertain, frightened still by the prospect of going to sleep but she fights it off, tells herself she’s being silly. 

“We don’t have to,” he says. “We can go downstairs on the couch, watch one of those moving pictures that you like. What about the one with the wizard, Marty McFly?”

“First of all, it’s called a movie. Second, Marty McFly isn’t a wizard. He’s just a kid who gets sent to the past in a time machine his nutty friend made.”

“Sounds strangely like a few of our predicaments.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Or, we could watch the one about the boat.”

“Why? So you can see Kate Winslet’s boobs again?”

“Now, Swan, you know your breasts are the only ones I want to look at.”

As if to prove his point he untangles their fingers and slides his hand up her body. He grips one, his thumb gliding over her nipple through the fabric of her tank-top.

“You’re always so soft,” he purrs in her ear. “I love touching you.”

She sighs, a familiar heat building between her thighs. It only escalates when he breathes against her pulse point, his lips centimeters away from her skin. It makes her shiver, makes her tremble and tense in anticipation. Her earlier fears don’t go away, but they fade and dim in the light of his tongue tracing the chords of her neck and dipping into the hollow of her collarbone. 

“I can stop,” he offers, stilling all of his movement. 

“Don’t.” She places her hand over his, applies pressure until he gets the hint and squeezes her breast lightly. “Make me feel good.” She gasps when he runs his teeth over the flesh of her shoulder blade then licks a path back up. In a breathy plea she says, “Make me forget.”

“Worry not, my darling. I’ll take care of you.”

His hand abandons her breast to stroke her side, his fingers inching her top up and tickling the bare strip of skin above her panties. When she was getting ready for bed she’d foregone the flannel pajama bottoms she was going to wear, a decision she’s praising herself for now. 

She has never been able to understand how he can do this. They’ll be talking about a completely innocent subject and then all of sudden he says something or does something and everything shifts. They go from zero to one-hundred in a split second. She relishes it, lives for the way he can fly her away from reality. 

He turns her to the side, lifts her legs over his bad arm and hoists her off the floor, his hand supporting her neck as he gains his balance and adjusts her weight. He always says she’s light as a feather. She doesn’t believe it, has scoffed at him on multiple occasion, but tonight she doesn’t say a word because he’s staring at her, a well of love and adoration in the depths oh his eyes that makes her pause. She breathes deep, her heart aching at the sincerity, the gentleness in his gaze.

He carries her through the doorway, extremely careful of her hanging limbs as he walks to their bed. “Is this okay?” he asks when he stops at the edge. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, “but only if you kiss me until I can’t think anymore.”

“I think I can manage that,” he sighs out before his mouth is on hers and all thoughts cease. 

He kisses her with careful precision at first, just a nurturing press of lips that simultaneously manages to soothe and arouse. Her breath quickens as he opens against her, his tongue touching the seam of her lips, then the roof of her mouth. It sends tingles up her spine and she grasps for something, anything. 

Emma ends up with a fistful of his hair in one hand and the charms hanging around his neck in the other. She tries to deepen the kiss, move it along, but he pulls back, keeps their mouths close as he pants. Their noses touch as he languidly pecks her lips, sucks on the bottom one for a moment before stopping. She huffs, impatient with his teasing, tries to force him back down but he resists before diving back in.

It seems like it goes on forever, this dance of lips and tongues. It’s sensual and heady and completely overwhelming. She’s absorbed in it, in him. He’s drawing it out, making it last and it’s driving her insane but at the same time she doesn’t want it to ever end. If it ends, she knows she’ll go back to thinking about blades and hoods and death. All she wants to have on her mind is the way he licks the corner of her mouth, the way he groans when she reciprocates, the way his fingers flex on the back of her neck when he tilts his head to kiss her deeply.

She can sense the moment when the strain of holding her weight begins to take it’s toll. He rocks from one foot to the other, trying to ignore it but eventually it gets the best of him. He pries his lips away with a grunt of dissatisfaction that makes her smirk. He raises a brow and turns with a flourish. He holds her over the mattress and lowers her body down, dropping her when she’s close enough to fall without incident. She bounces, the springs creaking in protest underneath her.

“You are a vision,” he says reverently, staring down at her sprawled out stance.

“I’m in a tank-top and panties and just puked my guts out,” she reminds him.

“Doesn’t matter.” He pushes his boxers off his hips and she watches as his erection is freed. His cock is gloriously hard, hanging hot and heavy between his legs. She licks her lips and he takes notice, wiggling his eyebrows at her. She removes her clothes, the fabrics sticking to her as she pries them away from her body. Once she’s finished, he brings one knee up onto the bed and leans over her, climbs the rest of the way up until he’s hovering above her. “You’re beautiful, Emma Swan.”

“And you’re cheesy.”

“I prefer the term romantic,” he says, popping the 'tic’.“

He doesn’t give her time to respond. Instead he crushes his lips to hers, this kiss lacking the sweet and careful pace of his earlier tactics. It’s bruising, a clumsy clacking of teeth as he devours her. His course chest hair rubs against her nipples while he dips his tongue into her mouth, his hand finding it’s way to her leg and lifting it over his hip. He barely let’s his erection graze her folds before he’s pulling back, hissing harshly into her mouth, their breaths mingling as he fights for control.

"What are you waiting for?” she asks, pressing against his ass with her heel, trying to get him to break and take her. 

“I’m taking my time.” He goes to her neck then, leaving dirty, wet, open-mouthed kisses along her clavicle. He takes a moment to suck a hickey into her pulse point. She can feel the blood rising to the surface, bordering on that fine line between pleasure and pain when he lets go with an obscene groan. He runs his tongue along it, his stubble leaving angry red burns.

“Do that again,” she requests, her hips squirming beneath him, desperate for friction. “Please, Killian, I need–”

She breaks off on a long, low moan when he starts sucking on the sensitive patch of skin where her neck meets her shoulder. Once he finishes there he moves to her chest, then to her breasts. He avoids her nipples entirely, works on the underside instead. Her hands fist in the blanket, her nails digging crescent-shape indentations into her palms through the fabric.

“Gods, Emma, you don’t understand what this does to me, that fact that you want me to mark you. It’s taking every ounce of control I have not to bury myself inside you right now.” He’s moving lower as he speaks, down to her stomach. He leaves butterfly kisses as he goes. He spreads her legs with his shoulders and ducks his head to the inside of her thighs. He starts sucking again, first on the left and then the right leg, moving closer and closer to her core as he goes. He takes in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her arousal. He hums his approval, says, “You smell like heaven.”

“Keep talking,” she moans, her hand gripping the back of his head.

“Does my voice turn you on, love?”

“Yes,” she gasps tilting her hips up towards his mouth. “God, please touch me.”

“Patience.” 

It hurts, her clit throbbing with neglect. She feels like she can’t breathe, like air isn’t filling her lungs and the only thing that could help her stubborn pirate was refusing to give her.

“What exactly do you want?”

“Anything.”

He tsks and shakes his head. “I think you need to be more specific.”

Emma startles when she feels the tip of his index finger press against her entrance. She keens, moans embarrassingly loud. She rolls her hips, tries to get him inside her but he moves away, up to her clit. He applies a feather-light amount of pressure but it isn’t enough.

“Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers? Or do you want me to suck you until you scream? I know how much you love it when I use my mouth on you, when I feast on your essence. You always taste so sweet, Emma. The tastiest treat in all the realms.”

“Both. I want both, I want it all.”

Killian chuckles darkly at her words. “Alright. I’ll give you what you want.” 

The pressure on her clit intensifies gradually, like a wave cresting before a storm. When he moves his fingers his tongue takes their place, flicking lightly while he presses inside of her. Her back arches off the bed, a hoarse moan tearing from her throat, her body clenching around him. He stills his movement until she lowers herself back to the bed with a little gentle encouragement from his hookless wrist on her hip.

“Breathe, my darling,” he says, his fingers beginning to move in and out, in and out. 

“I’m trying,” she gasps, trying to focus on her lungs filling and expanded and then exhaling instead of the way he’s licking at her and pumping his fingers, curling them and searching until he hits that spot that no other man in her life had taken the time to find. When he locates it she nearly screams. She can practically feel his smug smirk against her center, has the urge to wipe it from his face but puts it on the backburner until he’s not between her legs and turning her into the personification of Jell-O.

She doesn’t know how long it takes, maybe ten seconds, maybe fifteen minutes, but he works her to a crescendo, brings her to the edge and lets her hang before she’s free-falling headlong into a sea of pleasure. Her orgasm seems to last and last, her walls pulsing and her muscles tensing and releasing until it ends.

Emma’s left panting as he eases her down from her high. He kisses her oversensitive clit a few more times, making her hips jump. She groans in protest when he pulls his fingers from her but he soothes her by sliding back over her and kissing her. She can taste herself on his tongue, a tangy flavor that makes her blush.

He taps on her temple with his still-damp finger and asks, “Are you still thinking?”

She scrunches her eyebrows together, confused until she remembers what she’d asked of him. He’d accomplished his task; she’d lost all ability to think when his mouth was sailing her into oblivion. But, she wasn’t finished with him yet. “A little.”

“Let’s see if we can remedy that, shall we?”

“What do you have in mind?”

He lowers his upper body until it’s flush with hers, the roughness of his chest hair scratching against her nipples in a way that makes her whimper and clutch at the sheets. In the past she’d never been into hairy guys, but with Killian it just made her burn hotter. She has the sudden urge to bury her fingers in it, maybe rake her nails through it. She gives in, allows one hand to latch onto the hair in the middle of his chest and then runs the blunt edges of her nails down, down, down until she reaches his pelvic bone. Her knuckles faintly graze his erection and he groans, lets his head fall into the crook of her neck as he breathes heavily against her.

He gets himself under control before he snakes his hand between them and extracts her. He kisses her palm and lifts it over her head. He holds it there, entwines their fingers while he speaks, low and raspy and sexy as hell in her ear. “I plan on ravishing you to the fullest extent of my abilities, my darling.”

Emma sighs, whether out of pleasure or frustration she’s not entirely sure. She enjoys his teasing, relishes the way he takes his time with her and builds her up, but she’s also incredibly impatient by nature. It’s probably no surprise to him that she thrusts her hips up, angles them so that his cock brushes between her folds. He presses her back into the mattress and chuckles, shakes his head in fond exasperation.

His fingers are brushing over her side, ghosting over her skin nearly enough to tickle, enough to make her flinch away slightly. He’s continuing to tease and she’s fed up, more than ready for the main event. 

It’s time to pull out the heavy artillery.

He expects her to try and coax him with her hips again but she switches it up. Instead she raises her head, licks the shell of his ear and whispers, “You know, I don’t tell you enough how good you feel when you’re inside me.”

In a pained voice–and after a particularly desperate groan–Killian says, “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, Swan, you bloody minx.”

“You’re so big,” she moans, undeterred. “I’ve never been with anyone who goes as deep as you do. It would probably hurt if you didn’t take such good care of me, make sure I’m nice and relaxed and wet for you.”

“Stop it,” he admonishes.

“I love it when you talk to me, when you say those obscenely dirty things. It makes me–”

She’s cut off when he surges down and kisses the words away. He lifts one of her legs to rest over his hip, her foot pressed against his ass as he lines himself up and thrusts into her. She breaks from his lips and sighs in relief, but then she realizes he isn’t moving, merely resting contently between her thighs. He brushes his hand and his stunted wrist up and down her legs, holding them opened as he tries to resist the urge to thrust.

The room is filled with the sound of their heavy breathing. Killian is looking down at her, the moonlight casting a luminous glow over his face. She notices–not for the first time–how weary he looks. His eyes have dark circles under them, the absence of his eyeliner making it painfully obvious that he’s gotten about as much sleep as she has. She reaches up and traces her thumb along one of the bags, then over the scar on his cheek. He smiles and leans into her touch.

“Emma, my love,” he whispers reverently. 

She has the strong urge to cry at the way he says her name, the way his voice cracks slightly at the end. She shuts her eyes against the onslaught of emotion. She has barely a moment to fight the feelings that are welling up inside of her before he’s moving his hips in tight, slow circles that has her moaning low in surprise. She arches her back, needing to be closer, needing to feel more of him, needing to forget about all of the horrible things that has happened to them.

One of her hands is splayed over his back, the muscles shifting beneath her palm as he moves. He keeps it measured, doesn’t chase their climaxes just yet. 

He savors being inside her. He always has. He told her when they had sex for the first time that he would never take being with her for granted, that he would cherish every single moment that she allowed him inside her body. While they indulged in the occasional quickie, it was never rushed. He always took care of her needs, made sure she came before he did. It was more consideration than she was ever afforded in the past, so she clings to it, allows him to worship her even when she thinks she doesn’t deserve it.

“Focus, darling,” he rasps in her ear. He never fails to detect when she’s drifting. 

Emma suppresses a loud moan as he picks up the pace. He’s driving into her now, the bed creaking noisily underneath them at the force of his thrusts. It’s exactly what she wants, the push and pull of his hips, the burn of his chest hair against her nipples. 

There are no swords or dark, hooded figures in her head anymore.

All she can see when she closes her eyes is a kaleidoscope of colors, flashes of purple and yellow and green and red. Her thoughts have vanished. She hears only the smacking of the headboard hitting the wall, the slapping of their skin, the heavy panting of Killian’s breath. She feels his hand worm it’s way under her head and tangle loosely in her hair. She opens her eyes in time to watch Killian’s face move closer as he kisses her with everything he’s got. 

When they have to break for air, he holds her there, lips still touching.

“What do you need, Emma?” he asks.

“Keep going. Don’t stop, please, Killian, don’t stop.”

He moans into her mouth and starts to fuck her harder. Her heart is thumping in time with his pace, the pleasure building inside her. He must know because he starts whispering in her ear, knowing what effect his voice has on her.

“Mmmm, you feel so snug around me. You’re getting close, aren’t you?”

She’s barely able to nod in confirmation.

“Uh, gods, sweetheart.” He untangles his fingers from her hair and uses them to wrap around the crook of her knee and push her leg up a bit, changing the angle of his thrusts until he’s hitting the perfect spot inside of her. She arches her back and tries to suppress a deep, embarrassingly loud moan but her efforts don’t work. It echoes throughout the room but at the moment, with the way he’s making love to her so damn thoroughly she might explode, she couldn’t care less. She lets out another, and another, and another. “That’s it. Let me hear you. There’s no one else here. Just you and me. Let everything else go. Focus on me.”

She can’t focus on anything when she’s seeing stars behind her eyelids, her body tensing until the coil snaps inside of her and she’s coming with a string of hoarse moans and expletives. She curls her arms around his shoulders to hold onto something while she rides the intense waves of bliss. 

He mumbles encouraging words in her ear until he stiffens and comes inside of her.

Killian doesn’t collapse on top of her. Instead he holds every part of his body above her except his head, which he allows to fall into the crook of her neck. He leaves a few lazy kisses along her clavicle, sucks lightly on her pulse point. She runs her fingers through his mussed hair, her nails digging into his scalp with the right amount of pressure to make him lean in and beg her to keep doing what she’s doing.

When the position starts to become uncomfortable he shifts off of her. She takes the opportunity to slip out from under the covers and walk to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers before going to clean herself up. When she returns he’s underneath the covers, her side turned down and waiting for her to crawl in.

She hesitates.

He notices.

“Emma,” he says as he turns over and rests his head on his hand, “if you don’t want to get into this bed and sleep, that’s perfectly fine. You can get in and we can talk, or we can go downstairs and watch a movie.”

She takes a deep breath and walks forward. She doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. She wants to be able to sleep in their bed. She wants to be able to have dreams instead of nightmares. She wants to imagine a future where there’s something other than agony plaguing them at every turn. 

When she gathers the courage she climbs into bed, slipping in next to him. She’s immediately enveloped in his arms, her nose pressed into his chest and her legs entwined with his.

“Did that help at all?” he asks softly.

“Yes. I don’t think that’ll ever not make me feel better.”

He chuckles, but she can hear the strain. “I only want you to be happy.”

“I am happy," Emma says, and she means it. She’s never been happier in her life, surrounded by her family, her friends, her son, and a man who’s her true love. The only thing putting a damper on the whole thing is the fact that it might not last for much longer. "Other than the fact that I might die.

Killian flinches. He pulls back and looks into her face, his expression serious. "You’re not going to die. Not now, not in the near future, not even in the distant future. You’re going to be old and gray.”

“And you’ll be, what, three-hundred and fifty? Four hundred?”

Her attempt at levity seems to placate him. His eyes shine with mischief as he rolls her on top of him, his hand skating up her side. “Age means I have more experience.”

“Reminding me that you were a sex fiend isn’t helping me.”

He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t–bloody hell, I wasn’t that bad.”

“Tell that to that damn bar wench you kissed.”

“We both know she was my type, love.

Emma grabs his face in her hands, pulling it close and whispers, "You know I love you, right?”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“And you know that what we just did, even if we didn’t do that, even if you’d just talked to me it would’ve made me feel better, right?”

He nods. “Aye.” 

“But, with that being said, that was an excellent distraction.”

The smirk that spreads across his face is sinful. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They lay in bed for what feels like hours, kissing and touching and talking into the early hours of the morning. She isn’t sure when she falls asleep. She remembers him snuggling up to her from behind, his breath hot on her neck while he told her a tale about sailing the Jolly Roger through the eye of a hurricane. She can recall the moment he said he thought he would perish, but by some miracle the storm broke. The sea calmed, the waves dying to a dull roar. The sun peeked through the clouds and in that moment, he knew he would be alright. He knew he would live.

Somewhere between wakefulness and slumber, between consciousness and dreams, Emma sees a light amidst the darkness. She realizes that maybe, just maybe, there was a break in the clouds that had been surrounding her for weeks. Even a raging storm has to end. No matter the destruction it left in it’s wake, the sun always managed to shine afterwards. 

She would just have to let Killian be her sunshine.


End file.
